A Life Relived
by jeckel-hyde14
Summary: What if the dagger had remained in the Sandglass for just a little longer? What would Dastan do if he had to live the last fifteen years of his life over?
1. Sandstorm Beginnings

Disclaimer: Prince of Persia does not belong to me.

A Life Relived: Chapter One

It took every moment he had left in him and yet no time at all. That was the terrible beauty that he had accepted both long ago and at that very instant. Winds howled and tore their unforgiving claws straight through his body, leaving nothing intact. Fire ravaged his world and turned the air around him to molten glass. His body broke as it was pulled in every direction and twisted in intricate patterns. He was in the epicenter of the Sandstorm of the gods.

His life flashed before his eyes. Lives he had not lived flashed before his eyes. He witnessed every life on the world in the same instant and yet could remember none of it. He found himself mourning for the souls who would be lost for his uncle's treachery. He became part of the storm herself at some point, having no existence beyond destroying all in his path. He separated from her sometime later and mourned again for the pain he had caused.

He became nothing, little more than a disembodied soul washing over the world's surface. In that nothingness he was everything. He was a part of every living thing and he felt as each thing died a sandy death. All was swept away, until only the barren earth remained. His soul cried out – the only sound on a grave-silent world. He cried for all he had known and for all he had lost. He cried for his lost love and for his broken trust. He cried for the mistakes of his past. He cried and the gods heard. They heard and made a decision that changed the course of history.

* * *

><p>Dastan jerked awake. He was on a horse. He wasn't alone. Looking back, he saw his treacherous uncle. Frozen with absolute terror, he almost didn't notice that he was much smaller than Nizam. Dastan did notice though, because he was first and foremost a child of the market and observation was a necessary survival skill.<p>

"Is something the matter, boy?" Dastan did not mistake the concern in Nizam's voice as concern for Dastan. He heard the dark tone behind the question as he would not have before.

"N-no." His voice shook a bit in his answer, but Nizam appeared to accept it anyway. Looking ahead once more, Dastan saw the horse of his father Sharaman. That was impossible though; Sharaman was dead. Nizam's treachery was the cause of that. Nizam's treachery and Dastan's naïve trust.

Surely this was a dream, thought Dastan, brought on by his imminent death. He looked around though and took stock of the surrounding area. He was in one of the poorer marketplaces in Nasaf. The nearby potter's booth was one he recognized and had used as a landmark for rooftop travel in times past. Scents of cloying herbs and smokes and of illness and sin hung heavy upon this area of Nasaf.

Dastan took stock too of the people. Nasha was crouched on top of a nearby roof. Dastan gave him a small signal to tell him to get Bis and gather the rest of his group home for the day. In an alleyway not half a minute's walk away from Nasha's roof stood Radwan. Dastan's hot-blooded friend stood stock still at the sight of Dastan riding a noble's horse. Dastan repeated his signal. Radwan nodded and left the alley as silently and unnoticed as a shadow.

There was simply too much detail for this to be a dream, he decided. As he reached that conclusion, a sort of bone deep fear settled on Dastan's shoulders. Had he suffered a heat related delusion that invented fifteen years of life? Or was something else at work this day? Something beyond simple understanding…

The path that Sharaman chose on the path to his palace was the same one as Dastan vaguely remembered. The looks from the guards made him nervous. They were acting as he remembered. Dastan sat quietly in the saddle of Nizam's horse and bowed his head. He needed to think. Perhaps he was in the throws of heat-stroke but, excitement began to gather in his gut and he forced it down before he could do anything foolish, perhaps he was actually being given a second chance. He _had_, after all, meddled with the Sandglass. Not even Tamina knew fully what the Sands of Time could do. How far they could take a person without killing them.

He did not know the answers to his questions; _could_ not know, but he had hunches. Gut feelings, really. Most men would not trust these feelings. Dastan had learned long ago, however, that his gut could save him a lot of grief and conflict. His attention was diverted for a moment by Nizam muttering almost inaudibly.

"The next time Sharaman wishes to personally buy his _beloved_ sons a few new trinkets, I shall _personally_ advise him against it. Strongly." Interesting. Dastan had always wondered why the King of Persia had been in a market in the slums of Nasaf. Thinking on the matter though, he found that the explanation of his father's presence fell within the wise king's way of acting. Sharaman always looked for ways to please his two, soon to be three, beloved sons.

Startled out of his musings again, this time by the horse stumbling on a stray rock, Dastan realized that the king and his royal entourage had entered a different part of Nasaf. While it was a place that neither Tus nor the more open-minded Garsiv would ever consider welcoming, it was still closer to the palace than most of the people Dastan had grown up around would ever come. Guards would have turned them away. Saddened by his thoughts, Dastan tuned out the world until Nizam's horse stopped in front of the palace gates.

In the stables just inside of the gates stood several servants waiting to care for the king and his group's mounts. They all started slightly at the sight of Dastan. Then they relaxed. A few of them looked on him with pity and curiosity. Dastan read their thoughts from the look on their faces. Young boys who returned home with nobles from the slums were not usually meant for anything good. It was odd, though, for one to be allowed to ride on the horse of a noble instead of walking.

Sharman dismounted his stallion first, as was customary, and the first servant took charge of it. The king stayed behind as the rest of his guard dismounted left the stables. Nizam got off of his horse quietly and helped Dastan down. Grudgingly, Dastan accepted the help. He did not want the traitor to touch him but was at the same time unable to safely dismount on his own.

"Brother," the king addressed Nizam, "I want you to see to the boy's cleanliness. Find a servant to give him a bath and clothing and a room."

"What do you plan to do with the boy?" Nizam spoke quietly. Sharaman looked Dastan over one more time as if measuring his worth. Dastan apparently passed whatever test was set to him.

"I mean to adopt him into my family." Nizam's face showed pure shock.

"Adopt him? Do you not already have enough sons and daughters?"

"None of my children are quite like him." The king paused, as if not wanting to give a full explanation, "Just see that what I ask is done. A bath, clothes, and a room fit for a prince." Dastan's eyes were wide. This conversation was _exactly _as he remembered.

"I will do as you say, brother."

"Excellent. I will go now and summon my beloved sons to me so that I may tell them of their newest brother."

The remaining few servants stared at Dastan as he and Nizam left the stables. Dastan understood and didn't need to read their faces. He already knew their thoughts.

* * *

><p>The king's brother led the street rat through the palace. Dastan recognized the path they took as being a string of back passages that almost guaranteed an unseen journey to wherever in the palace the walker intended to go. In this case the destination happened to be the bath chambers of the palace. Once Dastan had a room he would take his baths in there, but for now he had to do so in the bath chambers shared by all without residence in the palace.<p>

A servant was in the chambers already. Nizam looked unsurprised to see him – the king had most likely sent him there whilst on his way to his private study.

"The king has ordered this boy be given a bath. Then you are to find him clothes and lodgings," Nizam swallowed thickly like this sentence hurt him terribly, "fit for a prince." The servant nodded mutely and Nizam turned on his heel to leave.

"Bye." Dastan felt compelled to bid farewell to the man. Nizam turned slowly with a fake smile plastered to his face.

"Goodbye, Dastan. I will see you later." Then he was gone.

Still silent, the servant (whose name Dastan never learnt) motioned for him to remove his clothing. Dastan did so. Moving as efficiently as any child of the market, the servant led Dastan to the bath pool and again made a motion similar to those Nasha and the rest used to communicate. Dastan slipped into the hot water. Watching the man outside the pool, he decided to speak and hopefully diffuse some of the tension in the sweet-smelling room.

"Where are you from?" The servant remained quiet for a time, but eventually answered.

"I was raised in the markets. Much like you, I assume." Dastan nodded. The servant motioned again and Dastan leaned his head forward to allow the servant to pour clean water from a pitcher over his head. He then picked up an odd container of odd soap. The servant began washing Dastan's hair. He decided to speak again.

"You look familiar. When did you leave the markets?"

"Not more than a year and a half ago, my lord."

"Just Dastan, if you please."

"As you will."

"A year and a half you say? Did you know Bast, son of a soldier?" The servant paused in his cleaning.

"Yes, I believe so. I grew up a few streets away from a boy called Bast whose father was a soldier. Why?"

"My best friend is his younger brother."

The remainder of the bath went much easier. Once the tension was gone, banished by the peace brought by mutual acquaintances, the two males breathed easier and spoke freer.

As the servant finished bathing the new prince, another servant – a girl – brought in a set of clothes for Dastan. The first servant helped Dastan dress once the servant girl had left the room. The outfit was simple, white linen shirt and soft dark pants, set to Dastan's taste as a street rat and at the same time good enough for a prince to wear on a lazy day.

The first servant remained at his station in the bath and Dastan exited the room. The servant girl stood patiently outside the door. Nodding, she began to lead Dastan in a direction he recognized as being a fairly direct path to where he remembered his room to be.

A sense of déjà vu fell upon Dastan. He recalled with almost perfect clarity his first trip to his chambers. A servant girl, very possibly the same one that led him now, had led him through the then-confusing halls of the palace. It did not take too long to reach the door of Dastan's chambers. She opened the door for him, told him to make himself comfortable, and to wait for a servant to bring him to the evening meal with the king and his two beloved sons.

"What does that mean?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Everyone talks about his two _beloved_ sons. Why not just say his sons?" He knew the answer already, but wanted to seem as though he was truly new to palace life. She smiled at him.

"The king has many sons and daughters, but the Princes Tus and Garsiv are the only two borne by the king's first and best loved wife, may her soul find peace." She paused, "They are his favorite children, in a way. They are the two most eligible for the throne." She paused for a long time, until Dastan realized she was waiting for his signal of understanding or confusion. He nodded. She smiled again, repeated her instructions, and let him alone in his new chambers.

The moment the servant girl left him alone, Dastan broke into a brisk walk over to the eastern-most wall of his main chamber. He located the small carving near the floor and pressed it firmly. A hidden cabinet popped open a few paces away from him. He moved to it and deposited in it the few treasures he carried always, including his few copper coins, a tiny carving of a leopard given to him by Kaysar, and his mother's woven hair-band.

Mission accomplished, Dastan walked calmly to his bed. He sat down on the many cushions and thought. If he were to do anything for his friends in the near future, he would need to be able to leave the palace. The last time he had lived this day he had sought out all available escape routes. He quickly decided that this course of action was one that he should retake as his knowledge of the routes had faded. Dastan had not needed to sneak out of the palace for many years now.

He rose from his soft bed and crossed the floor to his balcony. It was a nice balcony, smaller that Tus and Garsiv's to be sure, but plenty large enough for the peasant-prince of Persia. Dastan looked over the marble railing of his balcony. His chambers were high enough off the ground to make leaving both more difficult and simpler. Now, how to go about leaving...

His deliberations took so long that the sun grew to be quite a bit lower in the sky before he was finished. In fact, he had barely ended his thoughts when the promised servant arrived to take him to his evening meal with the king.

It was many hours later that Dastan returned to his rooms, troubled. He almost wished that he had not grown to have such good people-reading skills. It was quite clear to him that Tus was wary of the boy his father had taken off the streets and that Garsiv vaguely hated him on principle. Garsiv had trouble liking anyone new and anyone that could be labled street rat. Dastan was both.

He was tired and he was emotionally drained. With the walk of a man, boy now, who had felt the deep ache of those seen as family disliking him, Dastan shuffled to his bed. There was a set of nightclothes on the top of his pillows. Below them lay a warm looking blanket. Dastan smiled softly, the servants of the palace always _had_ been kind to him. After changing, the youngest of Sharaman's beloved sons, whether his brothers knew it or not, fell into his bed and into a deep slumber.

Then the nightmare started. He saw his father burn more than once that night.

A/N: Alright y'all. This is my first try at a PoP fic. I want your honest opinions. Should I continue this story or abandon it? Keep in mind that my updates will _not_ be regular by any stretch of the imagination due to school, work, and life in general.


	2. Unfamiliar Familiarity

Disclaimer: Prince of Persia does not belong to me.

A Life Relived: Chapter Two

If Dastan had ever considered the possibility of redoing his childhood, which he hadn't, he would not have considered this particular aspect. Honestly though, who _would_ think about doing their childhood school-lessons over again? Yet there he sat, in a small, cramped desk in a small, cramped room, taking his 'first' lessons as an adopted prince.

His father had sprung this annoyance on Dastan, and everyone else in the palace, that morning at breakfast. Dastan, who had been engaged in a staring contest with Garsiv, had needed a moment to hear what Sharaman had said, another moment to understand it, and a third moment to react. Apparently both of his brothers had found his expression of incredulous horror amusing and Dastan found himself at the end of a few quiet barbed jests once Sharaman's back was turned.

"Did Street-rat think he could just sweep into the role of Persian Prince?"

"Apparently so, Garsiv. Or perhaps he believes himself proficient in the areas we must learn."

"Careful, Tus, 'proficient' is an awfully long word. Street-rat probably doesn't know its meaning…"

Their words had hurt, more so than the first time because, at least then, the words had been true, but they also brought something important to Dastan's attention. He already knew everything that the tutors could teach him. Would he be able to hide that; to force himself to 'learn' everything again?

That question remained, unanswered, on Dastan's mind through the rest of breakfast; until the three beloved sons of Sharaman sat in their small, cramped lesson room. It niggled at the back of his mind, until the time came for the tutor to test Dastan's current knowledge levels.

"Street-rat won't know much…"

"Hush. Now, Tus, Garsiv, I want the two of you to work on your studies. Tus, your penmanship needs work; I could hardly read your last essay. Garsiv, I want you to practice your reading. Your current level is abominable"

Dastan smiled. The royal tutor was am ancient no-nonsense Roman by the name of Janus. He often seemed to be the only one, besides Sharaman and Nizam, to be unaffected by the princes' royal status – he took no flak from any of the three and was brutally honest when it came to areas of their schooling that needed work. Tus and Garsiv gave in to Janus' orders with minimal grumbling. Dastan started when his tutor addressed him suddenly.

"Now, Dastan, is there a particular subject you would like to begin with?" A quick glance at his brothers-who-were-not-yet-his-brothers told Dastan that Garsiv was smirking at Dastan while Tus studiously (and obviously) ignored him in favor of practicing writing with his calligraphy pen. Annoyance shot through Dastan at Garsiv's expression. A mischievous idea followed close on annoyance's heels.

"Yes." Tus glanced over, startled at Dastan's confidence. "Can we start with reading?" Now Garsiv looked over with half -amused curiosity written all over his face.

"You mean 'May we start with reading.'" Smirks came from the other two beloved sons.

"Right, may we?"

"Yes, we may." Janus walked over to his bookshelf on the far end of the room and pulled off what appeared to be a child's primer. The Roman brought the primer over to Dastan's desk, set it down, and sat next to the former street-rat, ready to help should Dastan stumble over a word. "You may begin at any time."

Dastan pulled the primer closer. As far as he could tell, the faded red book with the cracked spine was the same one he had learned from before. An inner grimace followed the recognition as Dastan remembered how long he had learned from that primer. He opened the cover. For a moment he felt slighted by the simplicity of the sentences; then he recalled his young-street-rat-with-no-former-schooling status. Shaking his head mentally, he began in a somewhat monotonous voice.

"See the horse." Janus seemed surprised at the ease that his pupil read. "See the horse run. Run, horse, run!" Dastan prepared himself to continue the torturous exercise, but Janus stopped him with a gesture.

"Impressive. Can you read something more complex?"

"Maybe. What did you have in mind?" With astounding speed and grace for one his age, Janus leapt to his feet and retrieved from his bookshelf a book of folk tales. Returning, the tutor spoke again.

"Find a story you like and read it to me." Dastan nodded and flipped the pages randomly until he came to the beginning of a story. He smiled; it was one of his favorites. He read confidently.

"Once, in the royal city of Isfahan, there lived a young man named Ahmed, who had a wife named Jamell. He knew no special craft or trade, but he had a shovel and a pick—and as he often told his wife, "If you can dig a hole, you can always earn enough to stay alive." That was enough for Ahmed. But it was not enough for Jamell…" By the third paragraph, all three of the others were listening, stunned at Dastan's reading abilities. By the time he reached the end, "as any diviner could have foretold, they lived happily ever after." Garsiv's mouth was slack, Tus had dropped his pen, and Janus looked as though he would burst with happiness.

"Excellent! Excellent! Where on earth did you learn to read so well?" Dastan froze. He hadn't quite thought his idea through. He would have worried had his learned instincts not kicked in. As any child of the market knew, lying well was essential to surviving on the streets of Nasaf. Within the acceptable range of answer formulation, Dastan began to speak.

"The merchants in the markets always need help setting up their stands. Some of them pay their helpers with food." That form of payment was actually how Parham had survived his first year as an orphan, "The ones who don't sell food have to pay in other ways." He paused, "There was a rope merchant that paid with reading and writing lessons. Not many helped him; usually it was just me, him, and Bis if I could drag him into it."

"Wonderful!" Janus was practically crowing with glee, "I must go inform the king of this! He will be pleased!" The grey-haired Roman almost skipped out of the small, cramped room.

* * *

><p>It was several hourglass turns later that Dastan found himself pursuing one of his old favorite pastimes – exploring the palace from the ceiling and walls. It was a game he had often played with himself as a child; the goal was to explore as much ceiling as possible without being seen.<p>

From his balcony rail he had managed to find handholds, which clearly doubled as footholds, on the surface of the outer wall of the inner part of the palace. He continued up the wall until he came within a manageable distance from a window he recognized as being one that led to the hallway outside the palace library.

Cautiously, looking back on the time he had broken his arm on this very transition, he used his momentum from a quick lean and climb and jump to grasp the window ledge. Then, hanging by his fingers almost six elephants high off the ground, he kicked off the wall. The movement caused him to momentarily suspend upside down in the air. A slight twist of his torso allowed his legs to swing through the window. Finally, he used his abdominal muscles to lift his upper body through to the library.

The change in light from the bright outside to the dusty dimness of the library made Dastan pause for a time to allow his eyes to adjust. Dastan smiled once they had. This was why he loved the library so much. The entire ceiling had, in between the stone ceiling and the room proper, a complex lattice of rafter beams. They were sturdy and smooth; perfect for practicing his cartwheels, back flips, and mid-air somersaults. Actually, the rafters were a great place to do anything that made him seem like, as Garsiv put it and Tus agreed, a crazed capuchin.

It was said that one should not speak of the devil, or he might appear. Perhaps, thought Dastan, that sentiment also applied to thoughts. At the very moment he thought of his brothers, Garsiv walked into the library. If he were still in his mid-twenties Dastan would have called out to his older brother, just to startle him. However, he was not, so he did not. That was a good thing, because mere seconds after Dastan had seen Garsiv enter, Tus followed.

Now, it ought to be mentioned that while Tus became a kind and gentle soul when he had matured, he was a rather petty and semi-cruel child. That much was evidenced in the fact that once he had seen Garsiv his eyes like up, his mouth turned up in a humorless smirk, and Garsiv hunched down in his seat at one of the library tables. Dastan braced himself. He wasn't quite sure of what Tus would say, but the body language of his brothers practically shouted out warning of an oncoming verbal cut down.

"Well well, Garsiv. I didn't think it possible, but you now seem even more pathetic." Tus' sentence didn't make sense to Dastan, but Garsiv seemed to understand, and look pained by, Tus' words. "Just think, a street-rat can read better than a prince of Persia. Whatever would mother say?" Dastan and Garsiv both flinched at the low blow. Tus and Garsiv's mother had died bringing Garsiv into the world.

"S-shut up, Tus. I'd say he made you look pathetic as well."

"Oh, how so?"

"He can write too."

"Yes, but his penmanship is even shakier than mine during a sandstorm." Dastan felt faintly insulted at that; it wasn't his fault his hands hadn't the muscle memory to write as legibly as they once had. After he took a small pause, he realized that he was intruding upon a private and volatile conversation. He really shouldn't be here. Tus and Gariv could break into a fistfight at any moment. It was time for what Garsiv referred to as a tactical retreat.

* * *

><p>Back in his room, Dastan made a decision. It wasn't any big thing; he made similar decisions every day. He was going to visit Sharaman in his private study. Judging by the position of the sun and the time of year, Dastan figured that his father would be in one of his restful periods. He would have time to speak with his new son.<p>

Crossing his room, completely ignoring the obnoxious wall hangings that he intended to remove at his earliest possible opportunity, he opened the secret compartment in his wall. He removed his mother's hair-band and wrapped the leather cord around his wrist for good luck. He then walked to his severely oversized door and left his room.

Since he truly didn't _want_ to lie to his father, Dastan sought out a servant and asked to be shown where the king's study was. The servant looked puzzled at the request but did as the peasant-prince asked. As he was being led, Dastan took in the familiar features of his home. The marble walls. The complicated designs carved into the stone. The red and black murals and artifacts. Persia sang to him from all sides.

"Here we are, my lord."

"Just Dastan, please."

"As you will."

The servant left him standing in front of an understated wooden door that was eye-catching simply because it wasn't made of stone. Stopping just shy of knocking, nervous about going to speak with his father for the first time in his memory, Dastan just stood for a minute, hand poised to rap against the wood. Finally, a deep bell sounded in the distance and shocked him out of his stupor. He knocked.

"Enter." His nerves were already calming just from the sound of his father's deep, regal, if somewhat confused at having a visitor during his letter-reading time, voice. Dastan did as he was bid.

He stepped into his father's study. A wave of fond nostalgia crashed over him. He found this to be odd, since he'd visited this study almost every day for the last fifteen years. Yet somehow the room made his eyes begin to water. The walls were a sturdy grey, he was sure, underneath layers of crimson and black painted murals. Depictions of famous battles rode all across the north wall. A wide, tall window with a clear glass pane stood proudly behind his father's desk. Hanging in front of the glass was a mobile that Tus and Garsiv had given him for a birthing day. It was all jasper and obsidian and ruby and onyx stones dangling from silver threads.

Sharaman, not wearing his crown (as was his custom whilst in his private study), looked at Dastan. His face blanked in confusion and then, easing Dastan's nerves further, smiled. It wasn't a court smile; it was a real smile with crinkles around the king's eyes and everything. "Ah, Dastan. What do you need, child?"

"I –" Why exactly _had_ he come? "I just wanted to… to talk with you."

"Oh? What do you wish to speak of?"

"Nothing in particular. I just wanted… to spend time with the man who plucked me off the market streets."

"I see…" Dastan's small courage faded with each word his father uttered.

"This was a bad idea. I'll just go now." He turned on his heel to leave but his father spoke again, stopping him.

"No. Stay with me." Dastan turned back to his father and smiled a diamond-bright smile. Sharaman gave another small smile in return.

"Alright. What were you doing when I got here?"

"I was reading and answering letters."

"Who from?"

"Well, I suppose it could be anyone really." Dastan put on his best 'thoughtful' face.

"Can… Can I help?" Sharaman looked at Dastan, once again taking measure of him.

"I think, perhaps, we would have a better time if we simply spoke." Of course, his father hadn't known him for long. Certainly not long enough to allow him to read private correspondence from who knew who.

"Okay." Dastan went silent and looked at Sharaman. The king waited for a moment. Just as he was about to speak, Dastan voiced the first of his questions. "How long have you been king?"

"Well, I suppose it's been about fifteen years now."

"…That's my entire lifespan…plus some…" Technically, anyway.

"Really? How old are you, child?"

"Dastan."

"I beg pardon?"

"My name is Dastan; everyone here seems determined to use every title for me _but_ my name. It's annoying." His father's eyebrows rose up high on his forehead. Dastan would have worried about this the first go-round, but he saw the glimmers of amusement in his father's dark eyes.

"I apologize. How old are you, Dastan?" A slight tremor of humor flowed from his voice. Dastan felt himself relaxing fully for the first time since before the attack on Alamut.

"I'm eleven and a half. I'll be twelve two days after the first full moon after the harvests."

"It must be special." Dastan wrinkled his brow in confusion. Sharaman continued. "You already know the specifics of this year's birthing day. It must be special for you to have learned the astrological pattern of the day it falls on."

"Oh, no, it's not anything special." Now Sharaman looked confused. "My birthing day is always two days after the first full moon after the harvests."

"That day is different every year, Dastan."

"I know. No one really knows what day my actual birthing day is, so Bis and Zad just picked an easy to remember day."

"I see…" Dastan could see that Sharaman did not understand his reasoning, but royals understood hardly any of the market-customs. "Who are Bis and Zad?" Dastan felt his eyes light up.

"Bis is my best friend! He's the one I helped yesterday in the market." A look of recognition passed over the king's face briefly, "Zad is another orphan in my pack."

"Pack?" Dastan felt that he should attempt an explanation, but no one not of the market ever quite got it.

"Orphans who go around Nasaf's markets alone don't last very long. So most of us split into… family units almost. My pack has seven members, if you don't count me."

"I see…" Sharaman's face showed more bafflement than anything else, so Dastan abandoned the topic.

"Why are Tus and Garsiv so mean to each other?" After a deep look, his father answered.

"They don't mean to be. Tus and Garsiv simply have clashing personalities. Very strong clashing personalities."

Dastan made his way across the room, closer to his father, and sat on the soft cushions intended for the princes' use should they decide to visit their father. Sharaman's shoulders progressively loosened up during their conversation. It wasn't all questions and it wasn't all statements. It was stories and it was quiet jests and it was companionable silences.

At some point the king began doing paperwork again. Dastan stayed with his father until the sun settled a good deal lower in the sky. It was then that the king looked at Dastan after a particularly long silence. Sharaman smiled once more, taking in the sight of the small, dark-haired child that he now called son sleeping quietly on a pile of pillows by the foot of his chair.

* * *

><p>The moon shone high in the Persian sky, not that it could be seen through the clouds. All within the walls of the palace were asleep. All but one boy… and all the guards. The guards, however, were of the opinion that all people meant to be asleep were asleep. They did not take into account the nature of a former street-rat to be quite active at night.<p>

Dastan crouched on a shadowy ledge about three-quarters the way up the wall. A guard, of an uncommon tallness, walked the hall beneath Dastan. A moment after the guard rounded a corner, Dastan made his move. With a swift jump to the other side of the hallway, he grasped a flagpole and allowed his momentum to diminish until he was just barely swinging. Then he dropped to a torch holder (he was extremely thankful for his slight form; he didn't fancy a heavy crash into a stone floor) and finally to the floor outside of Garsiv's room.

It was a small feat to enter that room; he'd done it often enough to know how to do so in near silence, even in the pitch dark of a cloudy Persian night.

Garsiv's room was much different than Dastan's, mostly because Garsiv had lived in his room longer. The walls were covered paintings of famous warhorses and racehorses. There was even one of Garsiv riding his first horse at the age of two (his father stood proudly beside his little son, keeping the horse steady). Garsiv himself lay on his cushions by a statue of, predictably, a horse.

His brother was laying on his back, hair in a loose horse-tail, with a small trail of drool running out of his mouth. Impishness danced on Dastan's face. Dropping into a crouch by his brother's side, Dastan smacked his hand over Garsiv's face, effectively waking and terrifying his older brother. In a low, growly tone, Dastan spoke.

"Little Persian prince… Do you realize…" He broke into his natural voice, "how dead you'd be right now if you lived on the streets." Garsiv glared at the space he knew that his adopted nuisance occupied. Dastan squeaked and jerked his hand away from his brother.

"Did you just _lick_ my _hand_?"

"Did you just _wake me up_ in the middle of the night for _no_ _discernable_ _reason_?"

"Oh, I have a reason."

"And what is your reason, Street-rat?" Dastan hid a flinch. It still hurt that the people he thought of as family were unfamiliar with, and in this case, hostile towards him. He shook it off though, in favor of actually accomplishing his goal.

"Follow me and you'll see!" By the low light of a moon breaking through clouds, Dastan could make out the form of his brother. From the look of him, he was glaring. Big surprise.

Dastan jumped to his feet and skipped over to the portal to Garsiv's balcony. There he paused and waited as a distrustful Garsiv slowly made his way over to his side. Dastan led Garsiv out to the railing. The two stood there for a minute. Garsiv rubbed his left forearm – a nervous habit that persisted even into his adulthood, if only around those he trusted.

"Alright," said Garsiv, "If you're going to push me over the rail, best you do it now." Dastan smiled. Good old Garsiv, ever the pessimistic smart aleck.

"You're silly, Garsiv." Garsiv bristled at the term 'silly'. "If I was going to kill you I would have done it already. I just wanna show you something." After Garsiv unfroze from the shock of an eleven year old talking so calmly about murder, he nodded.

"What do you want to show me on my balcony?"

"Silly," More bristling, "it's not on the _balcony_. We have to climb to get to it!"

"Climb? How? Have you hidden a ladder out here?"

"…Do you have to work at the silliness, or is that just your personality?"

"Shut up and answer me."

"How can I do both?" He received only a glare. "Right. We'll climb up the palace walls."

"Impossible."

"Difficult. Not impossible." Garsiv didn't look convinced of anything but Dastan's apparent insanity. "Don't worry, I'll help you. We'll take the easy way!"

Dastan jumped up on top of the rail and did a neat monkey-leap to the wall, clinging to handholds that Garsiv couldn't see. He scrambled up onto a ledge just under a window. There was a browning patch of desert climbing-vines growing within a precarious lean-and-grab. He pulled off a long, thick vine and lowered it to his stunned brother.

"Come on. Climb up; use the wall and just walk up." Garsiv, barefoot as he was, grabbed the vine and attempted to climb, but his hands kept slipping off the vine before he could get father than half a step.

"Garsiv." He started at his name, "as much as I enjoy watching this, I do really wanna show you this. So I want you to wrap the vine around your hand a few times and try again." A few tries later, Dastan was joined on the ledge by Garsiv. The older boy had his eyes screwed shut, hiding away from the height at which the ledge rested. Mentally rolling his eyes, Dastan continued.

"This ledge goes on around the wall. We need to stay on it to get to… the thing I wanna show you."

"Do we have to go on this ledge? It's so high…"

"Garsiv, it's either the ledge or we use the handholds to get there."

"What handholds?"

"Exactly. That way is beyond your for now and I don't want to explain your death. So…"

"Right, we use the ledge."

The two princes edged along the ledge, slower than Dastan, though faster than Garsiv, liked, until they reached the end of the north-facing wall. There, just below the ledge, was the roof of kitchens.

"You wanted to show me the kitchens." His brother sounded distinctly annoyed.

"No. The kitchen roof has the ladder we need."

Dastan made the leap easily. Garsiv jumped and landed on the edge of the roof. He teetered, dangerously close to losing his footing and his life, before Dastan grabbed his elbow to steady him. Garsiv looked around once he was safely on the roof and saw the promised ladder. They quickly crossed the small roof, one almost silently and the other rather loudly, to be honest; then climbed (this part went faster because Garsiv _knew_ how to climb a _ladder_) up to their final destination: the slanted roof of the king's prayer room on the eastern end of the palace.

The younger prince flopped down with the easy grace that came from years of traveling by rooftop. Garsiv dropped with the grace of a terrified ostrich. They were quiet for a time, then Garsiv spoke.

"What are you trying to show me?"

"You don't see it?"

"If I saw it, would I be asking?"

"Probably not, unless you were being stubborn." There was another quiet spell before Dastan continued, "Look at Nasaf." From their spot on the roof, the two could gaze upon the whole of Nasaf, markets, residences, and everything in between.

"I'm looking. What do I see?"

"You still don't see? Garsiv, from up here you can see the true beauty of our city. We are far enough away that the blemishes of the lower town aren't visible, yet close enough that the lights of our people can still be seen. Do you see the spots of light from down there? It's almost magical, like a diamond set in a bed of muted ebony. Or maybe like a miniature sky full of stars. Do you suppose that's how the Creator sees us from His home?" Garsiv was silent for a moment.

"I see it." That was all he said. It would have been a disappointing answer had Dastan not known his brother's tones and expressions so well. His voice displayed his awe and appreciation of the beauty that was Nasaf at night. Dastan smiled and pulled two things out of his pockets.

"Here." Garsiv was startled out of his reverie by Dastan tossing something to him. He caught the apple out of reflex.

"Why are you giving me an apple?"

"I wanted one and it would have been rude to eat one in front of you without offering one to you as well." The older prince looked puzzled, thoughtful even.

"You grew up a street-rat, right Dastan?" The peasant-prince smiled.

"Yes I did. Why?"

"You have wonderful manners for the upbringing you had. Come to think of it, you have a way with words that seems more courtly than street-rat."

"Before my mother died, she insisted that I learn good manners. She and my father were also fond of telling me the old, grand stories, and, as you well know, those stories are riddled with courtly words and phrases." Every word of that explanation was true.

"That makes sense, I suppose." The two princes sat on their rooftop and munched on their apples until they were naught but cores. They watched as the 'stars' of Nasaf went out as their keepers fell asleep, exhausted from a long day's work.

"Dastan?"

"Yes, Garsiv?"

"You might not be a waste of space." That was high praise, at this point, from Garsiv. Thinking back, last time it had taken Dastan almost a full year to gain that sentence. To receive it in less than a week was nothing short of astounding.

"Thanks, Garsiv. Hey, Garsiv?"

"Yeah?"

"I think you're going to be a great big brother." The brothers shared a small grin and rested back on their palms, watching as the moon finally broke free from her cloudy prison. Moonlight bathed Nasaf; creating a wholly different, but no less breathtaking picture.

"Dastan?"

"Yes?"

"How do we get down from here? I don't think father will be happy if we're found up here come morning."

"Silly Garsiv. We leave the way we came.

* * *

><p>AN: Enjoy! Thanks to all my reviewers! :D Oh yeah, the story from the book Dastan read was a folk-tale I found online.


	3. Rats

Disclaimer: Prince of Persia does not belong to me.

A Life Relived: Chapter Three

There were some rather definite upsides to Garsiv not disliking him. Dastan wouldn't go quite as far as to say that Garsiv _liked_ him particularly, but, at this point, the lack of hostility from a source that wasn't his father was refreshing.

One such upside was that Dastan had more to fill his hours with this go-around than worry over his friends, his new family, and his overall situation. At the moment he and Garsiv were engaged in a game of chess. Dastan had, in no uncertain terms, rejected Garsiv's idea to go riding. Honestly, Dastan hadn't had riding lessons; even if he _knew_ how to ride, he didn't yet have the skill to stay on. Well, maybe he did (market-child balance and all that), but why tempt fate?

Dastan watched, really there wasn't much he could do, as Garsiv systematically tore through his defenses and won the match. Dastan gave a deep sigh.

"Best eighteen out of thirty-four?" Garsiv glared. Dastan prepared himself for a change in activity. He'd expected Garsiv's present expression of mildly angered annoyance to appear much sooner. Dastan assumed that Garsiv didn't want to harm the fragile bond that they'd formed only days before.

Garsiv grasped the odd, horse-shaped playing piece tightly in his right hand. A strangled 'No' growled its way out of Garsiv's throat. Dastan decided not to push his brother any further, even though his every baby-brother instinct told him to tease and badger, for fear that the pesky vein on Garsiv's forehead should make an appearance. Both brothers were spared a small, awkward silence as the doors to Garsiv's rooms opened with a bang and Tus stalked in.

"And just what," Tus began, his voice a cold mockery of a questioning tone, "is the meaning of the two of you missing Complaint Day?" Dastan and Garsiv both winced. Complaint Day, as Garsiv and Tus called it, was notoriously boring for anyone not directly involved in the complaints being voiced or making the complaint-solving decisions (such as: 'That cow is your neighbor's. Take it again and I'll have your hands removed.'). Dastan personally found the day to be quite helpful in aiding the royals of Persia to gauge the mood of their people. Tus and Garsiv personally found that they'd rather eat raw snails than sit in on it.

"Sorry Tus…"

"Street-rat forgetting I can forgive, but Garsiv, you've known about Complaint Day for ages. Father and Uncle were disappointed not to see you there."

"I didn't know there was a Complaint Day scheduled for today."

"Did you not read the sign posted outside the Hall. Oh wait, you can't read, can you?" Tus' tone ended in a sort of sneer. Dastan saw Garsiv's eyes grow a bit too bright for this particular incident to end well. He made a decision. Just a small decision.

"Tus, shut up. Haven't you ever been told: If you can't say something nice; don't say anything at all?" He then grabbed Garsiv's hand and dragged him out of the room before Tus could snap out of his surprise and respond.

Dastan pulled his brother along several side corridors. The two were silent as they walked. Dastan checked on his brother over his shoulder every once in awhile. Garsiv kept his head down the whole while that Dastan lead him. Following small landmarks, like the loose stone in the wall on the small corridor just south of the kitchen, they soon reached their destination. Garsiv looked up when they stopped. For a moment he stood, stunned, in front of the dark-stained library doors.

"Dastan, why are we here?"

"We are here, my brother, because I won't stand for my brother to be insulted by another family member."

"What has that to do with…" Dastan cut Garsiv off.

"We are going to stop Tus by getting rid of the thing he insults you for." Garsiv looked confused. Dastan sighed again. "We're going to practice your reading skills."

"I don't need to do that." Garsiv's cheeks were red as summer apples. Dastan shot him a _look_.

"Garsiv listen, if you never practiced riding a horse, would you be able to ride well?" Garsiv shook his head. Dastan waited. His brother's eyes lit up in understanding a moment later.

"Alright then. Let us get this over with."

"That's the spirit, brother!"

Once the two were in the library, it was simple work to find a quiet corner, pull up some pillows, and get a hold of some reading material. The library was made up of mostly history, political writings, epic poems, and lists of tax rates and family trees. Understandably, this made for dull reading, especially for active boys such as the Persian princes. However, for the good of the family, such hardships could be endured.

The most difficult part of practicing the skill of reading was, clearly, picking the correct material. Several times Dastan had to remove an epic or an antiquated law manuscript from Garsiv's hands.

"You'll never get better if you set your goals that high."

"Father always says that we ought to set our goals as high as we can."

"Yes, he's right of course, but what I mean is that you need to set smaller goals under the big goal. You cannot pick up a sword and expect to execute a complex maneuver if you never mastered the basics." Garsiv nodded thoughtfully and settled on reading a small manuscript of folktales. Dastan reclined and listened to his brother's voice.

At some point that afternoon, a servant girl brought the two princes a bowl of fruit. Garsiv's eyebrows drew together in confusion at the bowl; it contained only apples and pomegranates. Dastan just grinned, he had some idea of how the staff had come to know his favorite fruit treats so early (Bast was a terrible gossip who 'knew' many of the serving girls). An idea blossomed in his mind. Perhaps reading practice could wait a while.

"Garsiv, follow me."

"…The last time I followed you we ended up on the roof." Dastan stopped mid-step and gave a glance at his brother. Garsiv was glaring. However, it was only a mild, humoring glare. It always astounded Dastan how quickly Garsiv warmed to someone once he'd decided they were worth knowing. Garsiv studied Dastan's face for a moment, shrugged, and followed the peasant-prince to the library's east window.

"Excellent…" Garsiv heard Dastan mutter to himself. He sent a bemused look in Dastan's direction. Then he saw what Dastan had brought with them: a small knife and a pomegranate.

"What are you…"

"Brother, today you will learn the fine art of seed spitting."

"That's hardly an activity fitting for a Persian prince."

"Oh hush, Garsiv. Think about it." Dastan took a small breath, "Does Tus like to walk in the garden?"

"Yes, but what…?"

"The same garden that is right below both of our balconies and the window of father's study?"

"Yes…" Suddenly Garsiv saw Dastan's plan and an evil-little-brother smirk slipped onto his face. Dastan nodded.

"Alright, do you see that guard just over there?" Dastan cut the pomegranate's skin open as he talked. Dozens of seeds were revealed, shining dully like unpolished rubies.

"Yes, I see him."

"Great, now take this seed and eat the fruit off. Waste not, want not, I always say. Ready? Good." A pause, "Now, the trick to this is to get the seed aimed right and putting the right amount of pressure behind it. Otherwise it'll just drop out of your mouth. It's all in the tongue, brother, all in the tongue."

The pair went through three pomegranates and two (apiece) apples. Very few of the seeds actually struck their targets, but one day, quite soon, the palace guards would begin to dread guard duty anywhere near a window.

* * *

><p>The next day, after lessons (Garsiv was making small strides in his reading), Dastan walked into his room. Late morning sun poured warmly through the doorway to the balcony. Swiftly making his way to his railing, Dastan made sure that there were no people around. Sure of this fact, Dastan jumped lightly onto the rail. There was a flagpole, rather conveniently placed, jutting from a wall just a monkey-leap to his left.<p>

Quickly, because the flagpole was made of some slippery metal (hot from the sun), he executed a mid-air somersault and landed on a small roof. From the roof of the garden-keeper's rooms he used a second leap to reach a low branch of a juniper tree fairly close to the outer wall of the palace. A sharp sting came from his right arm. The juniper needles must have scratched him. He shrugged off the minor annoyance and climbed up the tree as fast as possible; the tree was out of the way and not many guards patrolled over this way, but it would be just his luck if one came and saw him.

Settling onto the highest weight-supporting branch he could find, Dastan waited for a moment, keeping a close watch for guards, servants, or bumbling idiots who could tell his father about his tree climbing stunt. Satisfied that there was still no one about, he shimmied to the end of the branch and grasped the top corner of the wall. A sharp push-off and pull-up maneuver led to him being atop the wall itself. From his spot on the wall, Dastan saw his final target. One final monkey-leap saw him hanging by his knees from a branch from a similar tree conveniently close to the palace wall.

Dastan released his knee-hold and slipped down from the tree, doing a flip in the space between branch and ground to avoid a broken neck. One final glance around and he was ready to move on. He pulled a dark cloth over his head and another over his face. Anyone who did not know him by his gait would never be able see who he was.

* * *

><p>His disguise worked perfectly. Not one person in the upper or middle towns or the high markets recognized him. Their eyes slid over him as easily as they did the other passersby. However, it was not those places that Dastan had to worry about. He had spent only a few years in the middle town before his father and mother died of rat-fever and no one in the upper town had ever seen him before the one day he'd ridden through on Nizam's horse.<p>

From his spot on the roof of a shop in the lowest market, Dastan crouched silently, watching those who used to be his fellows. There was a gaggle of girls by the well, giggling over nothing. Nearby was a gaggle of crones, cackling over the misfortune of others. The baker stood waiting in his stall, sun-warmed bread on his table. Everyone was there: the brats, the whores, the street-rats, and the street-dogs. Everyone except…

"Well, well, well… What do we have here?" Dastan froze as the pointed tip of a dagger touched his back. He listened; it wasn't just one person on the roof with him. It was a group… One of the others spoke, confirming what Dastan already knew.

"If it isn't our favorite street-rat."

"No, stupid," Yet another voice, "he's no street-rat. He's a _prince_ now." Their voices were low and growling. Dastan smiled softly; he knew that trick. He knew these rats.

"Parham, put that knife away. You're going to slip and cut me, I can just see it." A stifled snort came from behind Dastan. He heard air being displaced and knew Nasha was being informed of his words.

"We never could pull that one on you, Dastan."

"Indeed you couldn't. Silly Kaysar, I _invented_ that trick." Dastan felt the dagger pull away from his skin and turned to face his pack.

It took his breath away, how young they looked, how alive they were. Though Bis and Bast were not with them, the rest of the pack was here. Kaysar stood silently by the wall of the building next to the shop roof. Leaning near him on the same wall was Radwan, his dark eyes boiling with laughter. Sitting on the edge of that wall was Nasha. Dastan signaled his greeting.

*Hello to you as well, my friend.* Dastan smiled at the reply.

"And just where the hell have _you_ been?" Good old Zad, fair in face but fiery as a demon. Parham, standing with a smug smirk behind Dastan, nodded, seconding the question. Dastan grinned. Then he answered, signaling as he spoke, for Nasha's benefit. Speaking and signaling at the same time was second nature to the whole pack.

"I was in the palace. You know, big building; lots of curved, blue rooftops?"

"Shut up."

"Wait. Dastan …"

"What is it, Zad?"

*We heard that the king adopted you.* Nasha's hands flashed in a blur of agitated nerves. Dastan paused for a moment.

"He did."

"Then why the hell are you _here_?" Zad sounded confused, frustrated, and hopeful. In Dastan's experience, a Zad who felt so many simultaneous emotions was a Zad waiting to explode at someone.

"I'll tell you all later. Now, I need to get to our home."

"Sounds easy enough. You _do_ remember where it is, right?"

"Hush, Radwan. What you need done, Dastan?" Kaysar's voice was, as usual, soft. However, it was a _tad_ higher pitched than Dastan remembered.

"You know me so well." He broke off. Nasha made a signal that, loosely translated and censored, meant 'get on with it'. "Right. Radwan, I need you to get Bis to the house. I'm assuming Bast is there already?" He received a curt nod, "Good. Nasha, I need you to spread the word to the other rats; tell them that, just because I may be seen by one of them, does not mean I am here. In fact, I'm _not here_."

"How come Nasha gets the fun job?"

"Because, Nasha can get anyone to do anything."

"Yeah, he gets away with everything too."

*Heh, no one could possibly be suspicious of the adorable, clumsy, deaf boy.*

"Shut up, Nasha."

* * *

><p>The abandoned house that Dastan's pack lived in was only a flip, skip, and a leap away. Literally. It took the four rats all of three rooftops to reach their home.<p>

The house had been abandoned for years before Bis and Bast (the first pack members) moved into it, following their soldier-father's death and their mother's decline into insanity. It was easy to see why it was abandoned. Part of the west wall was completely gone, replaced by tarps to keep out the occasional sandstorm. The walls that _were_ standing were made of clay bricks that were long overdue for replacement. Problems were even more apparent if one _lived_ in the house. The roof leaked terribly, every part of the floor creaked and squeaked, and there was a permanent draft (which was a mystery since it often occurred without any wind to sustain it).

Still, it was home for the pack; a second home to Dastan. He and his fellow rats slipped down from the roof adjacent to the cloth maker's stand.

The rats were met at the door by Bis, Bast, and Radwan. The two brothers raised dark eyebrows into their dark, curly hairlines. Dastan's face slit into a sheepish grin. Bis held his eyebrow question for as long as he was able, but it melted off his face and he began to speak.

"What's happened?"

"I've been adopted." The pack nodded grimly. Bast let out a slow breath.

"Quick, come inside before you're seen." The pack slipped into the house with notable stealth, keeping Dastan to the center, shielding him from curious eyes. Once inside, they settled on their patched collection of cushions, crates, and a single stool. Dastan sat on his favorite crate and waited for someone to speak. Bast obliged.

"It's good that you came back. We were…"

"You _are_ back, right? You're not staying in that palace?" Dastan winced at the nerves evident in Bis' voice. His silence spoke louder than any other answer he could have given. Awkward silence ensued.

"…we were _this_ close to storming the palace to rescue you…" Bast finished his earlier statement. Dastan thanked every deity he'd ever heard of that they had not. They had tried last time and Parham gained a permanent limp for their troubles. It was silent for some time more. A breeze whispered its way through the house, traveling unnoticed from one end to the other before continuing on its way. Finally, Nasha broke the quiet.

*What are we going to do?*

"Well, I don't know about you, but it seems to me that I'll need a… quiet place, for when palace life gets to be too much…"

"That's why we're telling everyone that you're not ever here."

"Right."

"I don't like this."

"Neither do I, my friend, but we must play with the hand we're dealt, as always." Bis looked straight into Dastan's eyes.

"Alright. I know you. You're going to do everything you can to make this _thing_ work out. You'll prob'ly do great too." He took a breath, "But so help me, if you forget us Dastan, I will charge that palace and drag you back here, guards with sharp, pointy rat-killing weapons be damned.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Dastan stilled for a few moments before continuing. "And Bis?"

"Yes?"

"If anyone asks you; I learned to read and write from a rope merchant. You didn't have the patience to learn," The pack share a smirk at the truthful jibe, "and the merchant left and died back in his home country."

"Whatever you say, Dastan. Just one thing…" The pack glanced to each other seriously and then turned back to Dastan. Nasha's hands moved when it became clear that Bis wouldn't continue.

*Someday you _will_ tell us what's going on. We know you, Dastan. You're hiding something _big_.*

A/N: Sorry for the wait! I tried to warn you...

Someone asked for the folktale from the last chapter. Unfortunately, they remained anonymus, so I could not reply in a PM. Anyway, here's the address: http : / / www . aaronshep . com / stories / 039 . html You know the drill; remove the spaces.


	4. Interlude: Nizam

Disclaimer: Prince of Persia does not belong to me.

Interlude One: Nizam

Once, in the royal city of Nasaf, there lived two brothers. They were princes higher than any of their royal siblings. The two were called Sharaman and Nizam and they were the closest of friends as well as brothers.

Sharaman was first in line for their father's throne, but, in his eyes, he and his brother Nizam were equals in all things.

It came to pass that the brothers grew to the age at which they were allowed to go hunting on their own, if they remained close by the city. Rejoicing at their new freedom, the brothers swiftly set about going on an expedition.

When the two were a suitable distance from Nasaf, they took their spears and began to hunt. Nizam spotted a fine deer some time later and the princes began to stalk it. They were unaware, however, of the dangers that lurked in the wild, even so close to the city. A great lion crouched in hiding in the tall browned grasses behind Sharaman. The lion pounced and for a moment, Sharaman felt certain that he would perish at the paws of the beast. Then that moment ended and Nizam's spear soared through the air and slew the wretched beast.

"O my brother!" exclaimed Sharaman, "Surely this day has increased our brotherhood tenfold!" And with that, the brothers took the body of the lion back to the royal city as proof of their brotherhood.

Years passed. The brothers grew from boys to men. And although it seemed as if Sharaman always received the greater share of all good things, they remained as close as ever. Then the old king died and Sharaman rose to the throne. Still the brothers' bond was not shaken.

There came to court, a few prosperous years later, a beautiful princess from a neighboring land. She was graceful as a swan and as soft as a whisper. Her skin was made of the very sun's gold and her hair the color of coal. Nizam saw her and thought to himself _I would have this woman as my own._ And so Nizam fell in love. Sharaman saw her and thought to himself _My heart would belong to this woman if she would allow it._ And so Sharaman fell in love. The two began to woo her affections. As women are wont to do, she saw past their words and actions and divined their innermost thoughts. She dismissed Nizam; she would not be possessed. She turned her gaze to Sharaman alone and soon the two were wed.

Not even a year passed before the king's first child, a boy-child, was born. The king and his wife named the child Tus and the kingdom rejoiced. Nizam looked at his nephew and saw what could have been his. A spark of jealousy darted through his soul.

Before the young prince could speak, word reached Nizam's ears. A second child was to be born to his love and his brother. Jealousy burned hot in his breast. Still, he contented to watch his love live on in peace.

All was well for a time. The queen's face grew more beautiful as her belly swelled with her second child. Sharaman felt a glow of happiness in his heart and Persia prospered. When the time was near for the child to be born, the queen took to her bed and rested. Sharaman worried, for she had not needed bed rest before Tus' birth.

The queen gave birth to a second son for Sharaman. The whole of Persia rejoiced again. But grief followed close on joy's heels, for the queen had died to bring her son, named Garsiv, into the world.

Sharaman's anguish roared through the land and all fell to the ground in fear of it. He sat, night after night, in his chambers, demanding wine to dull his pain. The task had fallen to Nizam, to ensure his brother remained well enough to rule. So he filled his brother's wineglass.

As the years burned by, Sharaman's grief faded. He raised his sons to be fine men and adopted a third beloved son and raised him as well. Nizam was pushed to the fringes of the court, filling his brother's wineglass. Anger and hate stained Nizam's soul black, though his face betrayed naught of it. Dark thoughts troubled Nizam.

His love would not have died, she might even have been his, had Sharaman not existed. He should have allowed the lion to kill Sharaman in the days of his youth.

Then he heard the tale of the Sandstorm of the gods.


	5. The Fleeting AN - It's Kinda Important

Hey Guys!

I know this is technically against the rules, so I'll be deleting this 'chapter' in seven days.

I have come to the realization that I need a… support group of sorts to keep me on track with my stories, idea mulling, and general fangirling (yes that's a word… now anyway…), so I've created a second Facebook account.

Check out my bio for more info.

Hope to see you on the 'Net,

jeckel


End file.
